by Stuart Keane
He closed his eyes and played Maybe in his head, one final time.
Six closed his eyes.
Then, he pushed the red button.
*****
"Can I help you, sir?"
"Yes, I wish to report a crime."
"Okay. Wait here. I'll have someone take your statement."
The receptionist walked away and disappeared through a white door. The man spun on his heel and scanned around the sparse lobby of the quiet police station. Dusty furniture, faded walls, a chugging, half-empty vending machine in the corner; a room that had clearly seen better days. He observed a delinquent on a central waiting chair, his frail wrists handcuffed to the arms, his young features brazen and tainted by the first hints of a criminal future.
A middle-aged woman who could only be considered a prostitute sat beside him, flirting with no shame and engaging the underage child in the only way she knew. Her mottled white thighs were hardly contained in her torn black stockings, and her pimpled bosom threatened to spill from her sequinned top at any moment. Her red hair covered part of her face, but didn't disguise the hideous make-up that adorned her wrinkled features. The teenager looked on, transfixed by the large breasts before him. He didn’t seem to mind the inappropriate attention.
The man turned back to the front desk as two uniformed police officers passed, folders underarm and conversation low. No one paid him any heed. He smiled and slapped at his rain-soaked trench coat. Droplets of water pattered the scuffed tiles at his feet.
The white door reopened with a quiet groan. The receptionist looked at him and forced a smile. "Sir, if you could come through."
The man nodded and followed the petite woman. He walked through the same white door and its embedded metal detector with no incident. Silence introduced him to the inner workings of the police station. He continued to trail the receptionist down a narrow hallway, and emerged at the side of the bullpen, a large rectangular room inhabited by a plethora of officers. The receptionist took her leave, and the man nodded a silent thank you. Uniformed officers and detectives in plain clothes mingled as a cohesive unit, rifling through piles of paperwork and tapping nonchalantly on keyboards. Some sipped coffee, others sat in silence, and a few laughed. One forked a spoonful of hot noodles from a plastic cup. Surprisingly, the man studied the large space with an acute eye, and realised he could not see a single doughnut. Not one. He laughed.
"Hello, sir…" A stick-thin police detective paused and looked at the man, a manila folder in hand. He looked around and sneered. "What's so funny?"
"I'm just marvelling at the lack of doughnuts in here." The man eyed the detective up and smiled. "And you clearly do not partake. Good for you, breaking cliché."
The detective narrowed his eyes. "Is that supposed to be funny."
"I don’t know. Do you find it funny?"
"No. Not really."
The man nodded. "Well then, let's not waste my time. I wish to report a crime."
The detective cocked his head. "Very well. We're in here." The detective led him to a small box room hidden behind wired glass and a sturdy brown door. A large number 2 stood central on a metal panel.
"What about that one?" the man asked, pointing to a larger, more central interview room.
"We're in here," the detective insisted.
The man shook his head. "No, I want this one."
"Sir, please…"
"I'm sorry, Mr Police Man. I'm a little claustrophobic. This one … it looks more spacious. I'd be more comfortable in there. If I'm comfortable, I can recall details better. Be a good public servant and acquiesce to my demands."
The detective sighed.
The man noticed. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Please?"
"Very well. Let's go."
The man took point and walked into the larger green room. He surveyed the high ceiling, the soundproof walls, the double tape recorder atop a plain wooden table. Four uncomfortable looking black chairs, two either side, completed the minimal décor.
The detective followed him and closed the door. "Take a seat, sir. Over there."
The man did so. The detective took the chair in front of the door, pulled it out, and lowered his frail frame into it with a gentle squeak. He slapped the folder onto the table and opened it, sliding a sheet of white paper towards him. He slipped a pen from his pocket. "I'm Detective Inspector Aldred. You wanted to report a crime?"
The man nodded. Pointed towards the tape recorder. "Don't you want this on tape?"
"Not right now. We may need to interview you again, depending on the crime committed."
"Isn't that just creating more work for you?"
Aldred placed the pen on the table. "It's procedure, until we know what the crime is."
"Or lazy. I reckon you run out of tapes."
The detective laughed. "You certainly have a mouth on you."
"I'm inquisitive, but that isn't a crime now, is it?"
Aldred narrowed his eyes again. Breathed out. "Very well. Your name, please."
"Seven."
"Severn? That's a surname, right? S-E-V-E-R –"
"No, Seven. Like the number, the one between six and eight."
"Very well." The detective scribbled. "And your first name?"
"I just told you."
Aldred eyed his interviewee. "So, your name is Seven. That's it?"
"Yes."
"Can you verify this?"
"I don't need to."
"I'm afraid you do, sir. We don't take statements from fictional characters or actors living out some elaborate fantasy. Seven as a name is … well, it's ludicrous. You swan in here all mouth and cock-sure bullshit, and think you have the right to berate me and my colleagues? I don't know what you're trying to pull, but this here is a waste of police time." He tapped the table top with two palms and went to stand up.
"Oh, but you're wrong. It's not a waste at all. In fact, it's pretty damn important that you take my statement. Detective Aldred –"
"Detective Inspector –"
"Whatever, Aldred, you're privy to the change of the world, a new era in the history of humanity. You're one of the lucky few who will usher in the new wave."
"I've had enough of this." Aldred pocketed his pen and straightened up. "You need to leave."
Seven unbuckled his belt and opened his trench coat, exposing the wired belt of explosives wrapped around his midriff. He slouched back and watched as, first, Aldred's eyes widened in disbelief, and then his thin mouth gaped behind his unkempt facial hair. The man slumped back into his chair. Seven chuckled. "Now, that look of shock was worth the 'risk' alone."
"How did you –"
"Get through the metal detectors? That's a trade secret, my friend, one that will follow me to the grave. Hell, I suppose it'll follow you to the grave too, since this is the last room we'll both ever see."
Aldred gulped, his face paling. "What do you want?"
"Well, therein lies the dilemma for you, Mr Aldred. I want for nothing … my later life has been one of complete servitude to my masters. I'm devoted to the cause, and I cannot be bought. No, this meeting will end in only one way, and I think you have a pretty good idea of what that is."
"You wouldn't dare. There's fifty police officers in this building. Innocent civilians."
"I saw two of each on my way in here. There are no such numbers. Do all police officers exaggerate? Oh, wait, of course they do. It's in their mantra."
Aldred nodded. "They'd have the cuffs on you before you could pull the trigger."
"I knew I should have a put a dead man's switch on this thing. But it wasn't needed. You see, this bomb will detonate, whether I die or not. You're the only one who knows of it, and those morons out there don't have a clue. No one can disarm this. And there's not a lot of time left. Like I said, there's only one way this is going to end."
"You're insane."
"Maybe, but at least I'm fighting for a worthy cause. The reset to humanity came about because of people like you, because of th
e average human's intolerance to what matters in the world. Corruption and greed have become more significant than air and water, and it's about time humans paid for their ill-advised ways. And they will, through one of those things."
"I don’t follow…"
"It's why I am here, Detective Inspector Aldred. I'm here to warn you about Oedema, the reset button that humanity so rightly deserves. The reset button that is already in the water system. My colleagues, at this precise moment, are infiltrating other police stations around the country, living out the same rigmarole that we're currently engaged in. We're here to ensure that Oedema remains a secret, that the residents of this country, and soon the world, discover this reset all on their lonesome. And when they discover it, you won't be there to stop them, to prevent it spreading, to provide assistance, and you certainly won't be there to prepare an evacuation or administer a cure. There is no cure, and on this occasion, a vaccine will not be humanity's saviour. After all, water is one those things that just won't go away, isn't it? It's always there. We rely on it, and people will fall to their dependence on such."
"You're … you're insane."
"I should take that as an insult, but then again, I don't have time to."
With that, Seven tapped his belt. A high-pitched beep filled the silence.
"See you on the other side, Detective Inspector Aldred."
*****
Around the United Kingdom, a series of immense explosions rocked the country to its very core. Birmingham, Colchester, Rotherham, Tunbridge Wells, Cardiff, Bristol, Nottingham, Edinburgh, London – nowhere was exempt. In a matter of moments, large warehouses and police stations that held prominence in their social and industrial sectors were reduced to a pile of crumbling brick or metal, and curling ash. Smoke rose, terrified screams pierced the air, and the emergency services saw a flurry of chaotic calls inundate their remaining switchboards.
Panic halted the United Kingdom and brought it to a sudden standstill.
The detonations were in sync, all occurring within a few moments of one another. News of the explosions ignited and spread within seconds. The internet imploded. Journalists tossed aside their sandwiches and coffee with the sniff of a potential story. TV was late to catch on as it always is in the modern technological world, but by then it was too late.
Social media drip-fed the news through multiple filters and sites and the news went viral, thus changing and manipulating the information on the actual events and facts, reducing the details of the attacks to nothing but sheer fiction, elaborate click-bait and outright lies. Within an hour, one hundred and seventy-five hand-held videos of the events were posted on YouTube, gaining hundreds of hits in the process. People commented and bantered on the videos as they normally would, oblivious to the peril that resided within those clips.
To many, it was another event to blab about on their social media feeds. A video to watch and share. A new hot topic to discuss and debate ... well, debate and ridicule, since the internet is no place for decent, intellectual conversation. Friends were lost, people fell out over who was right and wrong, hundreds of likes were forthcoming, and the block button would enjoy a few hours of popularity. While people were feeding their digital existence, the real world was crumbling around them.
To the few who shied away from such technological activity, people with a modicum of common sense, and those paralysed by fear and lack of knowledge, it spoke to something far more sinister. These events, a brazen coordinated attack on their country, coupled with the seemingly common attacks earlier in the week, spoke of one thing.
War.
War that started with the dismantlement of the emergency services.
And it was just beginning.
FIVE
He was three hours late to work, and on a futile second warning, but Robert just didn’t care. Perched in his unwashed bed, he pushed his yellowed thumb into the left side of his nose, blocked the nostril, and snorted air through the other side, splattering the wall with sticky green snot and stringy phlegm. It slapped the cheap red wallpaper, shiny and slick, and didn’t move. He flicked his gaze along the surface, marvelling at the previous attempts, all shimmering and flaky and crusted like bodily mementos.
None were so thick or full of mucus as today's attempt, and none made his sinuses feel as alive. Today was a winner.
With urine-soaked fingertips, he scratched his irritable scrotum through his soiled Union Jack boxer shorts, the coarse bush of pubic hair rustling against his chipped, overgrown fingernails. He slid off the bed, sucked his fingers, and stumbled down the hall. An enormous belch rippled across his chapped lips and echoed in the dingy kitchen as he staggered to the fridge. He opened the door, ignored the green, crinkled bacon on the top shelf, and removed a can of Coke and a small tub of butter.
He placed the items on the worktop. With all the grace of a lumbering gorilla, he reached into the cupboard above, removed the remaining crumpets, sniffed them, and dropped them in the toaster before tossing the packaging onto the floor. He drummed his fingers on the stained, brown surface and glared at the toaster, willing it to hurry up, and lifted his other hand to his face. With a bent finger, he picked his nose, digging deep and scratching the bone at the back of his nasal cavity. The sour essence of urine, faeces, and dried semen travelled up his nose. The sour smell made him giggle.
His brief reverie was interrupted by a light knock on the front door. Robert paused, removed the digit from inside his head, pulled on a crinkled blue shirt to cover his hairy, mottled belly and overstretched vest, and walked across the threadbare carpet of the living room. He glanced at the idle TV set and narrowed his eyes, confused. He wasn’t expecting a delivery; his weekly pornography bundle was delivered on every second Thursday. He'd avoided Amazon for the past few weeks after having his access revoked, and he was still undecided about purchasing a mail order bride.
No, Robert was stumped. He didn’t know who it was.
A second knock interrupted him, and he quickly became agitated. "Who is it?" His voice escaped as barely a whisper, almost child-like in tone, a feminine whine.
No one answered him. Typical.
He breathed in and walked to the door, clutched the handle and opened it quickly.
"Hello?"
The chilled water sprayed him in the face, catching him off guard.
It struck his forehead, splashed across his eyeballs, and dribbled down his cheek. The cold shock made him gasp and jump, his head butting hard into the door frame. He squealed, a high-pitched wail, like that of a pig being butchered. A second spurt of water entered his mouth and dribbled down his throat. Robert slapped at his podgy face, in an attempt to swipe the water away, and collapsed in the doorway, his legs splayed, his saggy scrotum dangling from the left leg of his hitched-up boxer shorts.
"Ha! Got you, you fucking freak!"
"What a fucking shot, bro!"
"Stare at our sister, will you? Pervert. She's only fourteen!"
The two teenagers pointed at the fallen man and mocked him, laughing aloud. He rolled away from them, his trembling hands forming a protective barrier over his head.
The boy lowered his Super Soaker 5000, and pointed at the fallen man. He turned to his brother and they shared a derisive chuckle. As one, their young eyes travelled down, exposing them to Robert's flaccid genitals. The younger boy held his mouth in revulsion. "Ugh, gross, fat man balls!"
The older teenager shuffled forward, then stopped. "You stay away from us, you hear?"
Robert nodded quickly, terrified. Said nothing.
The attackers shrunk as they moved down the dark hallway, the shadows swallowing them whole. Robert heard their footsteps clatter on the stairs, and disappear out into the sun-soaked morning. Their laughs echoed throughout the dim building, punctuating his fear. Robert slid backwards with a grunt and stood up, shutting the door behind him. He leaned his soaked face against its rough wooden surface.
You will not cry, you will not cry.
Don’t cry
.
Robert didn’t.
This time.
He felt a scorching heat surge up within him. Adrenaline went to work in building and restructuring his false bravado. An anger, a boiling hatred for the delinquent brats on his rundown estate, overwhelmed him and made him scream in frustration as the veins on his slippery neck bulged. He wanted to chase them down, punch them, kick them, and stamp on their fucking faces, shove their Super Soaker 5000's up their arses.
But he didn’t.
He never did, and he never would.
Robert didn’t have the balls to go through with such action.
He was all mouth and no action.
Get him behind a keyboard, and into the digital void of the Internet, and he was a God, invincible, a fucking keyboard warrior.
In person, though, he was as useless as a piss-stained paper bag with a full bottle of bourbon in it. A coward, and a perverted creep. He remembered the kids' spiteful words.
Freak.
Pervert.
Fat man.
Robert nodded. He knew what he was, and he knew what he wasn’t.
Even now, thinking of their sister – cute little Susie from down the street, with her spatter of freckles and sunny blonde pigtails, the tight school uniform, the skirt riding her thin thighs – made his boxers a little tighter. He knew his urges were wrong, unnatural and illegal, but he couldn’t help it.
He didn’t want to help it.
He wiped his slick face and licked his bulbous lips. He tasted salty sweat, and the bitter taste of old water tickled the back of his throat.
Fucking kids.
Robert swiped his forehead with his crinkled sleeve and walked to the kitchen, tossing his shirt onto an upended chair. He glanced at the toaster and noticed the browned edges of his crumpets. He paused for a second – should I drop them again, or not? – and decided against it, instead removing them from the appliance.